Carney checked his watch again, then gave a glance back to the maitre d's station.
"You seem a little nervous, John," Heppo remarked.
"Maybe I am."
"Well, take it easy. You're among friends."
"With friends like us," Grumpo said, "he needs all the enemies he can get."
"Don't listen to this guy. Momma always said his mouth would take him to the top, and then right back down again."
"Momma didn't raise any mute children, except you."
"I know my limitations. I can't talk for sour beans. Shoot a Moogie ―"
Heppo made a grotesquely comical face.
"― that I can do. There was this guy below our place when we were kids, ran a fix-it shop. When he worked he screwed up his face like this." Heppo did it again. "His name was Mort, but they called him Moogie, for some reason. Anyway, I been cashing in on him ever since."
"An artist uses the material of everyday life," Carney said.
"And a comedian buys his gags from a good gag writer," Grumpo said.
"Grumpo," Carney said, "your best gags are your own. In fact, you're eponymous for the quick retort. Grumpoisms."
Grumpo looked rueful. "I wish I was a surgeon. Or a dishwasher. Anything but a professional wiseguy." He seemed to mean it.
The meal went on, the talk gravitating to show business. Carney decided to stay put for now, as he was reluctant to take a cab alone. Not because he feared an ambush ― if one came it could be a litmus test by which to judge the possible outcome of the evening ― but because the cabby might get hurt.
At some point, Cisco threw down his half-eaten sandwich. "Let's get out of here. It's late and I'm tired."
"Spoken like a trouper," Grumpo said. "Let's vamoose. John, you're welcome to share a cab with us."
"Thanks, I will."
Grumpo picked up the check and looked it over. "This is outrageous. John, if I were you ―"
Carney's fifty was already in the tray, and the sight of it spoiled Grumpo's punch line. All he could do was grin awkwardly and say, "That's decent of you." Grumpo was not known as the world's fastest check-grabber.
Outside, Cisco herded the girls into a cab and waved goodbye to them.
"I'm bushed," he said. "Besides, I think they're both virgins. They're from out in the Midwest somewhere."
"Yeah, Virginia." Grumpo said.
"No, from some farm state."
"Aren't they all? Virgins are a cash crop out there. They ship 'em all east to the Boulevard."
"How about Studio City?" Cisco asked.
"Studio City? Virgins? Are you kidding?" Grumpo appealed to Heppo. "He's gotta be kidding."
A cab pulled up. Carney had been vainly searching up and down the street.
"Coming, John?" Heppo said.
"Yeah." Carney got in.
The cab pulled away, and Carney settled back, unsure of what to do.
"Where are you going, John?" Grumpo asked.
"Hellgate."
"Driver," Grumpo yelled. "East Seventieth and Bennington, then over the river for this gentleman here." He turned around on the little flip-down seat. "We'll pay the fare since you were stupid enough to pick up the check."
"Forget it. Hellgate's a long way."
"Well, if you insist," Grumpo said affably. "I like arguing with this guy. You always lose to your benefit."
Cisco turned the conversation back to virginity and related matters, and was in the middle of a story about a sporting house up in Eindhoven with an employee whose specialty was something akin to fruit arrangement, when Carney spotted a gray Leland parked on the street.
"She takes these pineapple slices see…" Cisco was saying.
"Stop here, driver," Carney called.
"Sounds so good I'd probably eat it myself," Grumpo said. "Are you getting off, John?"
"Good night, boys."
"Well, don't take any wooden Indians. Whatever that means."
"Take care, John," Heppo said.
Carney got out and watched the cab move off. The street was quiet. He walked back to the parked sedan.
Tony and Velma were intricately entangled, his hand lost in her dress.
He tapped on the glass.
Tony jumped. He rolled down the window. "Boss! Hey, we got tailed. They wouldn't quit, so I pulled over to wait 'em out."
Carney gave the street the up-and-down. "Looks like they were convinced. You can stop the verisimilitude now."
When Carney got in, Velma was reapplying lipstick and Tony was wiping it off his face.
"Sorry about that, boss," Tony said.
"You could have phoned the restaurant."
"I didn't want to leave Velma."
"Forget it. But I'm docking you a hundred out of your pay."
Tony was silent for a moment. He put away his handkerchief. "Gee, boss, I'm sorry as hell. I feel like such a finòcchio. I really shoulda figured some way to phone."
"I said, forget it. We lost them. Now let's get moving."
Tony started the car.
Velma gave Carney an enigmatic smile conveying a suggestion that she had meant to do some mischief and was delighted to have succeeded. But it was only a suggestion.
"Go up to Dutchtown," Carney said.
"Dutchtown? I thought we was going to cross the river."
"Later. I need to get in the spirit."
"Check."
The car moved off into the night.
Twelve
Ville-Des-Morts
The street was dark and deserted, decent people being in bed, sleeping or otherwise, at this time of night. There was, however, a fingernail-clipping of a moon that served to limn the cobblestones in a faint bluish light.
Linda, Gene, and Snowclaw kept to the shadows. They passed through alley after alley, sending gray ghosts of cats scurrying. Every so often they encountered a lighted window ― someone sick, perhaps, or a literate citizen (in these neighborhoods quite rare) up with an absorbing book.
They did run across the odd person up and about, and twice, a group of rowdies. The rowdies they hid from, but in neither case did they suspect the passers-by of being members of Ragueneau's private police force.
They moved on through the old city.
"We could go through the sewers," Gene suggested.
"Yuck," Linda said. "Do you know your way around down there?"
"Nope. But I thought it would lend the right note of romance. Orson Welles in The Third Man. Zither music, you know?"
"Right."
"Wait." Gene stopped Linda with an outstretched arm. Snowclaw halted.
Voices up ahead. Gene motioned toward the mouth of an alley. With a light tread, they ran.
The other end of the alley gave onto a winding street. They turned left and proceeded until they heard more voices, these off to the left. They hurried.
They came running around a bend and into full view of three men talking in the middle of the square. They skidded to a stop.
One of the three walked toward them. "You there! Let's see your papers." He wore, as did his mates, the telltale purple brassard of Ragueneau's auxiliaries.
"Papers?" Gene said innocently.
The man kept coming. "Idiot! Your identification papers."
"No need to get personal."
"Eh? What's your name?" The man's right hand went to his sword hilt.
"Jose Ferrer. And we don't got to show you no stinkin' papers." Gene drew his rapier.
The man drew his weapon almost simultaneously, but backstepped until the other two arrived. Gene and Snowclaw went to meet them. Gene engaged the first man while Snowclaw, sans weapon, faced down the pair.
They didn't know what to make of him. Snowclaw kept advancing purposefully, and, momentarily intimidated by his size and his inexplicable behavior, the two men failed to stand their ground. Then one of them lunged for Snowclaw's massive chest. The point made contact; the thin sword bowed into an arch, and the astonished attacker withdrew.
"Ouch," Snowclaw said, stopping. He opened his shirt and examined his right pectoral. "That broke the skin, darn it." He sprang toward the culprit. "Now you're going to get it."